


Complementary

by pepper_writes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hunk (Voltron) Has Anxiety, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, Restaurants, Slow Burn, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepper_writes/pseuds/pepper_writes
Summary: Hunk and Pidge figure out that they can get free food if they 'propose' to one another at restaurants.





	1. Abstract

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rov/gifts).



> Dedicated to Soop, who came up with this brilliant idea in the Hidge Discord!

_Chapter I: Abstract_

 

It had started off as a dare.

 

Lance had been playing with the Styrofoam carton containing his leftovers, using his pointer finger to carve his name into the soft material as Keith looked over in disdain.

 

“Lance, if you make that god-awful squeaking sound I will _throw you_ out of this Cheesecake Factory window,” he warned, gritting his teeth in preparation for the horrible shriek of fingernails against a linguini-laden, un-recyclable monstrosity.

 

“I’m _bored_ ,” he grumbled, looking up at Hunk as if he had any control over how quickly their waiter would be coming over to ask them about dessert.

 

“If you’re so antsy then we can just leave,” said Pidge, wrestling her phone out of her pocket so that she could grab her credit card out of the case. “There’s a froyo place around the corner—“

 

“Uh, _no_? You don’t go to the Cheesecake Factory and _not_ get cheesecake!” Lance exclaimed nearly knocking over a glass of ice water with the gesture. “It’s tradition!”

 

“Well then, maybe we can do something to pass the time?” Hunk suggested, folding his hands politely in his lap. “That waiter is awfully busy, so it might be awhile before we can even order dessert, let alone actually have it in front of us.”

 

Pidge rolled her eyes, but Lance seemed content with Hunk’s solution: in fact, she was a little relieved at the possibility of moving on from their current conversation, as the topic of schooling had inevitably come up and she wanted to put off worrying about her graduate thesis for at least another hour or two. Granted, she was happy for Lance and how much he was enjoying his internship at the local aquarium, but his situation seemed positively glamorous in comparison to the number-crunching she’d been relegated to in the overly air-conditioned, windowless astrophysics department (it was boring as hell, but it paid the bills and paved the way for better things).

 

Outwardly, Keith hardly looked like he cared for whatever activity Lance managed to concoct, but Pidge couldn’t help but smile when the furrow in his brow softened and his arms uncrossed: she knew her roommate well, and though he’d never admit it she had an inkling that Keith was just as interested at the prospect of some newfangled activity as Lance was.

 

“How about a game, then?” Pidge posited, waving her credit card around from between her fingers. “Loser pays for dinner? Keith, do you still have that pack of playing cards with you?”

 

“Nice try, but after we got kicked out of Pechanga—“

 

“I didn’t count the cards _intentionally_ : I’m just a mathematically minded person. Didn’t hurt that I was able to pay for rent for three months, but go off I guess.”

 

“I think that we should stick to not breaking the law if at all possible,” Hunk said nervously, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “How about tabletop football or a quiet, inconspicuous game of charades?”

 

“ _Or_ ,” Lance said suggestively, wriggling his eyebrows, “we can play truth or dare.”

 

Hunk groaned, digging his fingers into the back of his scalp. “Laaaance—“

 

“ _With_ the stipulation that we don’t do anything illegal!” he added dramatically.

 

“Lance, we’re grown-ass adults at a Cheesecake Factory, not sixth graders at a sleepover,” Pidge deadpanned, though she couldn’t deny that the prospect sounded interesting: there were a million and one things one could do in a busy restaurant that would warrant _just_ enough entertainment and fall short of illegality.

 

“Well if the waiter takes any longer to get to us then this will be a sleepover, so unless you have a better suggestion—“

 

“Fine, fine: truth or dare, Lance?”

 

“Who said I had to go first?!”

 

“You suggested it, gotta reap what you sow, shark boy: truth or dare?”

 

Lance knew better than to take a dare from Pidge in a public place. “Truth.”

 

“What _really_ happened to the box of chili cheese fries in Hunk’s fridge last week?”

 

Lance bit his lip, avoiding his roommate’s pointed look. “They were getting kinda smelly and I threw them out. Sorry, big guy: if it’s any consolation I may have spared you food poisoning?”

 

Hunk shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Fair enough: I did have a cold last week and couldn’t smell much. Just let me know next time, okay? I won’t be offended.”

 

“You sweet baby angel,” Lance cooed, squishing his own cheeks in his hands, but very quickly transitioning into leaning all up in Keith’s space, a devious smirk on his lips as the other man boredly stared back.

 

“Hey, Keith: truth or dare?”

 

Pidge chuckled under her breath as her roommate’s throat bobbed, betraying his nervousness despite the stoic exterior: he’d had a crush on Lance for _months_ , and it seemed to be showing more and more with each passing day. At this rate she reckoned that they’d be together before the end of the year, but for now was content to kick back on the couch and watch as the two idiots stumbled around each other’s feelings.

 

Unsurprisingly Keith had chosen ‘truth,’ but seemed to immediately regret it when Lance asked him what he’d wanted to be when he grew up when he was a kid: as innocent of a question as it was, he was sure that Lance would find some way to made it embarrassing.

 

“I wanted to be a fireman,” he mumbled, eliciting an ‘awwww’ from Hunk, a few raised eyebrows from Pidge, and a knowing smirk from Lance.

 

“It’s funny you mention that,” Lance snarked, wriggling his eyebrows, “because every time the fire house on 4th Street holds a car-washing fundraiser you’re the first one in line—“

 

Keith shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “Hey, I’ll pay $15 to see the local beefcake in a wet tank top and suspenders polish my bike any day.”

 

Hunk nearly spit out his water, and Pidge cackled loudly enough to elicit a glare or two from the party of middle-aged women two tables down from them.

 

“Oh my _god_ , Keith, you can’t just _say_ stuff like that—“

 

The man smirked, knocking back the last of his Dr. Pepper. “I just did. Hunk, truth or dare?”

 

“Dare.”

 

“ _Pidge_ —“

 

“Come _on_ , Hunk, you always pick truth! Give him a dare, Keith.”

 

“Noooo, you _guys_ —“

 

Keith seemed to think on it for a moment as Hunk and Pidge bickered: ever since they’d all met in undergrad at Altea State the two of them had maintained an almost constant banter. While it never got malicious, it wasn’t particularly entertaining to him, either, especially because he didn’t even know what they were bickering about more than half the time (he was sure these two were the only people on Earth that had ever had discourse about single versus double modulation, whatever the hell _that_ was). The two of them honestly reminded him of an old married couple: constantly disagreeing with one another and causing a ruckus, but still in love nonetheless. Well, except the whole ‘in love’ thing, but—

 

Oh.

 

Oh, _there’s_ an idea.

 

“Fine, I’ll give Hunk a dare,” Keith proposed, drawing an exasperated sigh from the aforementioned man, “but since Pidge seems so insistent on jumping her place in line, she has to do the dare, too.”

 

Before Pidge could open her mouth and protest, Hunk enthusiastically consented to a dare, sending her a vindictive smile.

 

“Hunk, I dare you to go down on one knee and propose to Pidge, right here in this Cheesecake Factory, right now.”


	2. Observing a Phenomenon

_Chapter II: Observing a Phenomenon_

 

Hunk’s smile quickly flatlined, Pidge became even paler, and even Lance was rendered speechless: Keith was usually more reserved and grumpy than this. Had that waiter mixed in some vodka with his Dr. Pepper or something?

 

“Wow, and I thought my grandmother was eager to marry me off,” Pidge finally quipped, her initial reaction to the dare now long past. Hunk didn’t appear to have heard her, though: his brow furrowed in concentration, working through the logistics of this dare, the engineering side of his brain observing how each component of this scenario fit together.

 

“How do I propose without a ring?” he asked, glancing at Keith as if scolding him for the dare’s lack of thoughtfulness before whipping his head around to scan the crowded restaurant. “Are people going to notice what’s going on and expect us to ki—“

 

Keith huffed, grabbing a napkin ring from the table and tossing it to his friend. “Hunk, all you have to do is fake propose. Don’t over-think it, don’t over-do it. And make sure I have a clear view of Pidge’s face when you do, because I’m only gonna get one shot on my phone before the battery dies.”

 

“Only one photo? Dude, I’m recording this for posterity,” added Lance, fumbling for his own phone as Hunk and Pidge exchanged glares, each seeming to blame the other for the situation they were now in. As with everything between them, though, the exchange had no malice, but rather hinted at a shared embarrassment of having lead each other into such a ludicrous scenario.

 

Hunk swallowed, taking a deep breath: he’d make this silly and stupid, just so that no one around them got any ideas.

 

“Katie Holt, “ he began, his mock bravado much louder than he’d intended, “Ever since you yelled at me for breaking one of your Erlenmeyer flasks in Chem 100 lab freshman year, I knew our lives were forever after entwined. I’ll never forget your first words to me, grating and shrill on my delicate ears—‘Hey, don’t touch my equipment, my ferric oxalate salt is crystallizing!’—and the ensuing scream you made when you thought I’d destroyed three weeks of lab work. But even then, when I was on my knees begging your forgiveness, I never thought I’d be here tonight, in this very Cheesecake Factory six years later, asking you to be my wife.”

 

Pidge had been absolutely fine— _absolutely fine_ —until Hunk had said the word ‘wife,’ at which point she could feel her body beginning to betray her: she felt her ears prickle with heat as they turned scarlet, and her heart leaped unbidden. It felt like she was about to throw up, but…in a good way?

 

And, oh _god_ , the ladies from two tables over had effing noticed, and were now whispering to one another as Hunk pushed in his chair and—oh, he was really going down on one knee, wasn’t he?—taking one of her clammy hands into his own as he met her gaze, eyes sparkling with an admiration that was far more genuine than she’d expected. Lance could barely keep his phone still as he recorded, stifling a squeal into the microphone as two more tables caught on to the action, hushing their own conversations to facilitate their eavesdropping.

 

“We’ve been through so much: all-nighters in the lab, dealing with these two idiots,” he continued, glancing over at Keith and Lance, “Computing 300A, senior seminar with Professor Petersen, enduring the summer when the local 7 Eleven was out of business for renovations and we couldn’t get Slurpees for three months—but I’d go through all of it again and more so long as I got to do it with you.”

 

He held up the napkin ring in his thumb and forefinger, and one of the ladies at the neighboring tables squealed in excitement.

 

“I offer you this ring: not only as a promise for something far nicer and suited to your size when my paycheck permits, but as a promise to love and cherish you for the rest of my life. Katie Holt, will you marry me?”

 

Half the restaurant was watching them now, and Lance was beside himself with excitement as Pidge covered her face with her hands in embarrassment, nodding her assent before she could really even process what she was doing.

 

The Cheesecake Factory erupted in applause, throwing out a few wolf whistles as Hunk slipped the napkin ring on Pidge’s finger. On her wrist it was near large enough to be a bracelet, but she curled her finger around it nonetheless to keep it in place as Hunk embraced her, her feet momentarily lifted off the ground as he twirled her around in a tight circle.

 

When he set her down a moment later, smiling in relief and eyes glittering with a sort of fondness she couldn’t name, Pidge had half a mind to wrap her arms around his neck and—

 

But then, out of _nowhere_ , their waiter was stumbling through the crowd with an extra large slice of cheesecake and a handful of forks, grinning from ear to ear as he set the plate between them.

 

“Complements of the house,” he declared, passing out the forks before setting the check on the table. “The boss is also giving you 25% off the rest of your meal tonight: gotta start saving up for that diamond ring, eh?” he asked slyly, wriggling his eyebrows at Hunk. “Congratulations, you two!”

 

Pidge smiled nervously, cheeks still aflame as Hunk pulled her into his side in a quick hug. “Thanks, man: we really appreciate it.”

 

Thankfully the crowd seemed to have resumed its business rather quickly, leaving the four of them stunned into silence in their seats. Keith still looked like he didn’t believe what he had just witnessed, seeming to ponder the look on Pidge’s face for just a bit longer before he reached for the tab, double-checked the receipt, and slipped his credit card inside. Hunk looked like he was about to protest, but Keith held up a hand and shook his head.

 

“For a second there I thought you two were actually engaged,” he said, far more seriously than he probably have ought to. “I think you fooled every single straight person in this restaurant.”

 

Lance sniggered, reaching for one of the dessert forks. “Could you imagine these two together, dude? They’d probably take over the world.”

 

“Hunk wouldn’t let me,” Pidge quipped, swiping up a fork of her own to take the first bite out of the cheesecake. “Right, _fiancé_?”

 

He elbowed her gently, just enough to make the cheesecake miss its mark ever so slightly on its way to her mouth. The whipped topping smeared on her cheek, and Hunk was sure she would have shoved the entire plate in his face had she not just publically agreed to marrying him, so she sufficed with scooping a rather large portion from the cake and shoving it into his face before he could realize his mistake and retreat.

 

Pidge laughed as some of the cake crumbles destined for Hunk’s chin got caught in his scruff, satisfied with her revenge as her friend whined in protest at having to wash his beard in a public sink. Keith and Lance managed to snag a few small bites each before the entire dish had been absolutely obliterated by their friends. In the end the four of them managed to make it out of the restaurant with relatively little fanfare: even as Pidge trotted out the exit with the napkin ring still on her finger the hostess simply put her fingers to her lips and winked. Lance had a sneaking suspicion that she’d known of the generous tip he’d left, and was far too sentimental to let Pidge walk out of there without it.


	3. Forming a Hypothesis, Part A

_Chapter III: Forming a Hypothesis, Part A_

They all managed to make it into Hunk’s yellow pickup truck before dissolving into laughter, absolutely beside themselves at the ridiculous situation they’d found themselves in. Lance’s leftover linguini quickly stank up the truck’s poorly ventilated interior, and their combined body heat meant that Hunk had to turn on the vehicle and roll down the windows before too long, lest they all choke on tomato and parmesan-flavored carbon dioxide.

 

“Man, that’s going to be one for the ages,” Lance sighed, using the passenger’s side door mirror to inspect his teeth for any remnants of basil. “I mean, if people are that easy to fool, we should all propose marriage whenever we eat out: might actually save us a good amount of money every year.”

 

“I don’t know: it feels kind of dishonest,” Hunk added, his voice wavering slightly. “I mean, I don’t feel bad about tonight because that wasn’t the intention, but I feel like it would be wrong to just, you know, do it to get free food?”

 

“Fair enough,” said Pidge, poking her head between the front seats. “But, by that logic, we could go into a restaurant and dare one another again, and if the proposal happens to get us free food then that’s just a bonus, right?”

 

Hunk bit his lip, pulling out of the space to exit the parking garage. “Theoretically, I guess—“

 

“But to make things fair and share the work equally between the four of us, Keith will propose to Lance the next time we go to Olive Garden.”

 

Lance made an odd choking noise at that, disguising the sound with some poorly faked coughing. “An _Olive Garden_? I mean, Keith’s tacky, but not _that_ tacky: I feel like Red Lobster would be the absolute minimum to get a yes out of me.”

 

“Their cheddar biscuits _are_ pretty good,” Hunk agreed, merging onto the freeway. “Better than those godawful breadsticks: I bit into one thinking it’d be soft and cracked the filling in my molar.”

 

“There’s little out there that’s worse than a stale Olive Garden breadstick,” said Lance sagely, turning around in his seat to address his friend in the back with a pair of fingerguns.

 

“Hey, Keith, if you could choose, which restaurant would you propose to me at?”

 

Keith didn’t look up from his phone, continuing to scroll the screen with his finger.

 

“The Denny’s on 8th and Warner with a 0.5 star Yelp review.”

 

Even Hunk had to chuckle at that one as his roommate beside him groaned in exasperation. “It’s your turn to pick the restaurant next month, Lance, so you’ll have some time to decide.”

 

“Yeah, well then maybe _I_ should propose to Keith!” Lance declared, placing a hand on his chest. “No one’s going to believe us if the least romantic person in the world is doing the proposing.”

 

“Suit yourself: less work for me,” Keith replied, still scrolling through something on his phone.

 

Pidge looked at Keith as if he’d just appeared from another dimension: he usually jumped at the opportunity to bicker with Lance (it was a persistent vestige from their fleeting rivalry back in Astrophysics 105), but he’d been unusually quiet since they’d all hopped into the truck. Perhaps he was just tired: he’d taken a double shift at the auto body shop today and hadn’t gotten home until 30 minutes before Hunk had picked them up (Keith had managed to take a quick shower, but he still smelled like sweat and engine grease).

 

Hunk slowed the vehicle down as he exited the freeway, the turns barely registering as decisions in his head as his body instinctively took him home. He almost rolled past Keith and Pidge’s apartment complex, but managed to make the turn just in time to miss the curb.

 

“All right, you two, don’t stay up too late making vodka shooters from Youtube tutorials,” Hunk scolded, shifting the truck into park at the nearest entrance. “And remember to take your meds, Pidge.”

 

“Yes, _dear_ ,” she mocked, reaching behind Hunk’s seat to give him a quick hug before she followed Keith out of the truck.

 

“Thanks a bunch, Hunk,” Keith said, offering the man a grateful smile. “See you later, Lance.”

 

Hunk was already halfway out of the parking lot when Lance cracked open the window, poking his head out the whole way to blow the both of them a kiss.

 

“Just you wait, Mullet: next month I’m gonna sweep you off your feet!”

 

Lance’s cackles echoed down the empty street as Pidge fished out her lanyard, swiping the key fob on the door to let them both in.

 

It wasn’t until they entered their two-bedroom apartment and locked the door behind them that Keith and Pidge discarded their masks, collapsing into a groaning heap on their threadbare couch. Neither of them said anything for perhaps ten minutes, content to revel in the much-needed silence after such an eventful and emotionally exhausting night.

 

After a while Pidge began to scroll through her phone to check her messages, sending her parents a quick comment in response to the photos of Rembrandt and Vermeer paintings they’d seen on their fifth day of vacationing in Amsterdam (‘Neat! I like that guy’s hat: very fashionable :P’). She was about halfway through a game of Bejeweled when Keith lifted his head, blinking blearily in the harsh fluorescent light that their landlord refused to change back to a halogen.

 

“Did you forget to take a lactase tablet before your cheesecake or something?” she inquired innocently, chucking her phone onto the coffee table (which was really just a large, overturned Ikea box that their shelving unit had come in).

 

Keith groaned in reply, shaking his head.

 

“Are you having a crisis because Lance is going to fake propose to you in a month?”

 

“Ugh, don’t even say it out loud,” he grumbled, grabbing their largest pillow to hug it to his chest. “I’m so mad at you right now.”

 

Pidge snorted, fishing the napkin ring that Hunk had ‘proposed’ to her with out of her hoodie pocket. Sure, she was responsible for Keith’s current angst, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t provoked her with a very public and embarrassing dare.

 

“You made your bed, Kogane: it’s time to lie in it.”

 

“Screw you.”

 

“Screw Lance, but only after you finally get over yourself and ask him out on a few dates.”

 

“Oh my _god_ , Pidge—“

 

She held up a hand to silence him, and Keith seemed almost surprised at his own compliance.

 

“Listen, dude, I’m tired of beating around the bush: I know that you carry a torch for him.”

 

The blood drained from Keith’s face, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Did—how do you—?”

 

“Because it’s _obvious_ : you get all quiet and flustered whenever he gets in your space, and you keep pretending to be aloof whenever he flirts with you.”

 

“Lance flirts with _everybody_ , I’ve learned to ignore it.”

 

And, well, even before they’d been friends Lance had never flirted with _her_ , and even though Pidge saw the guy as a brother now, a part of Keith’s dismissal still irked her. As Keith frowned and mimicked her gesture, however, she decided to put that feeling on the backburner for now.

 

“My reasoning doesn’t matter, given that you’ve already admitted your attraction to him,” she replied coolly, “but that’s beside the point. Right now you have two options: either continue to torture yourself with pining and risk Lance falling for someone else, or take a chance and tell him how you feel. Option 1 has zero chance of success, while Option 2 at least gives you a shot at being with him.”

 

Keith pinched his brow, expression pained as he took a deep breath.

 

“Pidge, I know that this worked before, and that logically speaking this sounds like an obvious decision, but…”

 

He trailed off, biting his lip.

 

“Have you ever met someone that, that _terrifies_ you because they make you feel so much?”

 

The pained look on his face gave her pause: years ago, back in college when he’d had a crush on the captain of the squash team, he’d taken her advice (begrudgingly, but he’d taken it nonetheless), and things had worked in his favor: Pidge hadn’t stopped teasing him about his ensuing walk of shame for weeks, but the brief affair had never affected him like this. The squash team captain had been an itch to scratch, but _Lance_ —

 

Oh, dear: this was worse than she thought.

 

“Are we talking L-word feelings?”

 

Keith’s face pinched. “I…don’t know. Yet. It’s weird, but I guess I’ve never been in—you know, _L word_ before, so I wouldn’t know.”

 

She seemed to meditate on this for a moment. “So, on a surface level, I understand why you’re anxious about Lance possibly fake-proposing to you, but what _specifically_ about the whole thing is giving you grief? Help me figure you out, Kogane.”

 

Keith’s nostrils flared suspiciously. “Why, so you can use your shrink powers on me?”

 

“So that I can _help_ you, you doofus. Unless you want to do this on your own, which I don’t recommend but will honor if you want me to.”

 

A huff. “I guess… I’m afraid that he’ll, I don’t know, make a joke out of the whole thing? I mean, Hunk sort of did with you, but from what I could tell some of his real feelings were showing through, too.”

 

Pidge sucked in a breath, but quickly disguised it as a hummed affirmation. Should she risk asking him to elaborate? Would he continue that train of thought on his own?

 

Why did she even care so much?

 

“Hunk admires and respects you, and he’s not afraid to show it, but if Lance tells you that you’re cool or whatever he’ll deny it five minutes later. I know that as soon as we get out of that restaurant he’ll say something stupid like ‘no homo’ and that he won’t mean anything bad by it, but I—“

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, sighing shakily as if the very words he spoke pained him.

 

“I don’t think that I could h-handle that.”

 

Keith retreated into the cushions, pulling his knees in close as his thoughts swirled around him, bombarding him with taunts until Pidge shuffled in beside him to squeeze him tight, a small but tenacious tether in a sea of doubt.

 

“I won’t let that happen,” Pidge promised, yet unaware of how she was going to keep her word, but determined to help her friend nonetheless. “I know that Lance can be more dense than a neutron star sometimes, but I’ll work on a solution. If you want me to, that is.”

 

Keith looked at her skeptically: he knew that Pidge had her ways of getting what she wanted, though her methods were sometimes of dubious legality.

 

“I’ll consent under two conditions: one, you don’t tell anyone what I just told you, and two, you don’t get arrested.”

 

She squeezed him again from the side, nestling her head into his back.

 

“Add in a Peanut Buster from Dairy Queen and you’ve got yourself a deal, Kogane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have kudo'd and commented so far! I haven't given up on 'Exceptions,' I promise: I just needed a brief break to address this amazing idea that Soop had ;)


	4. Forming a Hypothesis, Part B

_Chapter IV: Forming a Hypothesis, Part B_

 

As soon as he’d rolled up the window, Lance slumped into his seat, covering his face with his hands.

 

“I can’t believe I just did that,” he murmured, laughing nervously to himself.

 

“I can,” Hunk said matter-of-factly, smirking to himself as his friend made a noise of protest. “But I think that just asking Keith out outright might be a little bit easier.”

 

“I’m not actually asking Keith to marry— _god_ , Hunk, don’t look at me like that!”

 

“What? You know I’m right: go see a movie with him or something, or invite him to dinner at our place. I’ll pretend to be tired and go to bed and you two can have the rest of the night to yourselves.”

 

Lance sighed. “Thanks buddy, but I don’t want to trick Keith into spending time with me: I don’t want to be that kind of person, you know?”

 

Nodding, Hunk relented. “Well, when you put it that way—“

 

“Yeah.”

 

They entered the parking garage, following a large white van to the second level. Lance opened his mouth, but seemed to think on his words for a bit longer than usual.

 

“How did you do it?”

 

Hunk pulled into his designated spot, turning off the engine before he faced Lance. “How did I what?”

 

“How did you just, like, come up with all that stuff about Pidge off the top of your head and rattle off a perfect proposal?” Lance asked, still seemingly baffled by the recent exchange. “It’s not like you had time to write anything down, or prepare notes, or do a practice round or anything! For a second I thought you were actually asking Pidge to marry you, and based on how _she_ looked about the whole thing—“

 

“What do you mean?” Hunk asked, and did he—did he sound _hopeful_? “She, uh…she wasn’t creeped out or anything, right?”

 

“No, dude, she looked at you like that time you baked her a fresh batch of peanut butter cookies in the middle of finals week,” Lance laughed, amused by his friend’s dramatic relief. “Stuck in a situation of her own making that she’d rather not be in, but grateful that you’re there to help her through it.”

 

Hunk remembered that day: it had been their junior year, spring semester, and Pidge had been cooped up in the library for almost 24 hours trying to finish her disability studies paper. The librarian had thrown a fit when he’d seen Hunk and Lance enter the stacks with a Tupperware container, so Hunk had had to coax Pidge out of her nest of books and papers to enjoy the tasty treats outside on the closest park bench. Lance had taken pictures, and one of them was tacked onto the wall next to his desk back at the apartment.

 

“Come to think of it,” Lance continued, shaking Hunk out of his thoughts, “I actually took a video, c’mere and watch it with me.”

 

He held the phone between them, turning the volume all the way up as camera Hunk’s lips began to move. Hunk winced at the sound of his voice on the video, especially as his obvious anxiety had caused it to waver and shake, but all bets were off when the camera focused on Pidge’s face: Lance could be heard sniggering in the background as he zoomed in, the light somehow perfectly capturing the rising blush in the apples of her cheeks, the resolution of it just high enough to catch the subtle drop of her jaw as Hunk said the word ‘wife.’

 

For the remainder of the video Hunk hardly heard anything: the crowd’s applause, Lance’s high-pitched squealing, and the waiter’s arrival were all just white noise, none of them demanding nearly as much attention as tiny, somewhat pixelated video Pidge looking at video Hunk as if she actually, genuinely—

 

No. She was his friend. Pidge was acting her part, just as Hunk had been acting his.

 

…but if Hunk was being completely honest with himself, had he _really_ been acting? Just how large was the grain of truth that had seeded this silly, frivolous lie?

 

“—nk? My dude? Hello?”

 

A hand waved in front of his face, pulling him back into reality.

 

“Yeah. Sorry, Lance, I’m…just tired,” he breathed, response almost automatic.

 

“You see what I mean though, right?” Lance asked excitedly, jiggling the phone in front of his friend before putting it back into his pocket. “Not creeped out at all. If anything she looks pretty flattered: I mean, they don’t call you Hunk for nothing—“

 

Lance continued to babble as they made their way up to the apartment: Hunk thought he mentioned something about the merits of beauty sleep and a hydrating moisturizer before bed, but for the most part his body remained on autopilot all the way up the stairwell, muscle memory guiding him through a quick shower and putting on his pajamas.

 

He must have seemed particularly lost while he was brushing his teeth, because when he returned to their room a moment later Lance was sitting on his bed facing Hunk’s, motioning gently for his friend to sit down. Hunk complied warily, reclining so that his back pressed up against the wall.

 

“What’s up?” Lance inquired, tilting his head curiously. “It seems like something’s bothering you. We can talk about it tomorrow if you want, but if you’d rather do that now I’m game.”

 

Hunk sighed. “Thanks, Lance, I—that means a lot. I guess I feel a little funky, but I’m still not entirely sure why.”

 

“Did you remember to take your meds this morning?”

 

He glanced over at his pill organizer and nodded. “Yeah, I took my meds.”

 

“Are you stressing out about anything at work?”

 

“No more than usual.”

 

“Did the fake proposal freak you out a little?”

 

Hunk shrugged. “I mean, sorta? It was just a prank, but it was so… _emotional_. I can’t stop thinking about it: how everyone was watching and listening, how embarrassing it must have been for Pidge—like, do people who propose to their significant others in public places not realize how much pressure that puts on the person being asked?”

 

“Hunk—“

 

“Who would say no to a proposal when everyone around you is squealing and talking about how cute you are?”

 

“Easy, buddy: all valid points, but take a step back,” Lance said calmly, well versed in talking Hunk down from his anxiety. “You asked Pidge to marry you, but does that mean that you _actually_ asked her to marry you?”

 

A long exhale. “No.”

 

“Okay, was that the only thing bothering you?”

 

“…it’s complicated.”

 

“Do you want to talk it though with me?”

 

He sat still for a long time, patient and supportive as Hunk allowed his thoughts to marinate. Despite his reputation as being a bit of a gossipmonger there was no pressure in Lance’s voice: he was Hunk’s friend first and foremost right now, here to listen rather than judge, and sworn to secrecy by the bro code.

 

“Earlier you asked me how I did—how I ‘proposed’ to Pidge,” Hunk began, wringing his hands. “And, well…the easy answer is that I meant what I said.”

 

Despite his determination to remain calm and impassive, Lance’s jaw still dropped in surprise. Even so, he regained his composure and cleared his throat, once again a vision of impartiality. He could just as easily be referring to their platonic relationship, after all, but if Hunk was so distraught—

 

“And the complicated answer?”

 

Hunk bit his lip, heart lurching unbidden as the scenario played out in his mind: he’d just slipped the napkin ring on her finger, Pidge curling it tightly into her palm to keep it in place as he twirls her around, holding her close as the world around them dissolves. It’s just the two of them, smiling and laughing at how silly this all is, but his hands are warm and snug on her waist, her eyes comically wide and wanting as he holds her close. Pidge arches herself into his touch as she reaches up to run her fingers through his hair, tugging the back of his scalp to bring his mouth down to hers, and it’s wet and she tastes like chicken parmesan but her lips are so soft and earnest against his own, parting and gasping as he pulls her flush against him to kiss her back—

 

“If—“

 

Hunk gulped, his exhale a shudder past his lips, the sensation against them a phantom of some unfulfilled fantasy.

 

“If I could go back…”

 

But Pidge’s voice whispered in his consciousness, echoing a long-forgotten conversation (read: debate) from their theoretical physics lecture: wasn’t every unfulfilled fantasy just some iteration of an unexplored reality?

 

In some universe—in _this_ universe even, under the right circumstances, could he and Pidge really be—?

 

“I wouldn’t change anything.”

 

Lance nearly fell out of his bed, his calm, impartial façade shattering.

 

“ _What!?_ ” he shrieked, throwing out his hands, and Hunk had to laugh at that.

 

“Lance, you can’t just kiss people without asking—“

 

“Oh, so you _do_ want to kiss her!” he interrupted triumphantly, grinning ear to ear. “I freaking _knew it_ , man: oh my god, you two would be so cute together!”

 

Hunk blushed, feeling some of his anxiety alleviate at his friend’s enthusiastic endorsement: now that he’d said it out loud, things were beginning to seem more real. He liked Pidge—he _really_ liked Pidge, and had for awhile, if he was being honest with himself—and wanted to do something about it.

 

“You really think so?”

 

“Yeah, dude, ask her out!”

 

Aaaaaand the anxiety was back.  

 

Lance seemed to catch on immediately, hopping out of his bed to wrap his arm around Hunk’s shoulder.

 

“Hunk, I know that you can do this,” he assured, squeezing him tightly. “You practically asked Pidge to marry you, like, an hour ago. If you can do that, you can ask her out on a real date.”

 

Rationally it made sense, but the butterflies in his stomach seemed rather persistent tonight, and it wasn’t because of the Cheesecake Factory lasagna. ‘Proposing’ had been…oddly easy? It was probably because he knew deep down that there was nothing at risk between them: just a silly prank between friends that ended up becoming a lot more trouble than any of them had anticipated.

 

And that gave him an idea.

 

A terrible idea.

 

He’d been candid and sure of himself when he’d been ‘proposing’ to Pidge. Everything had flowed naturally and beautifully, and he had the video to prove it: even Lance, a self-proclaimed love guru, had given it all a high grade. Logically speaking, if he replicated the circumstances of tonight, he’d feel just as good about the whole thing, right? All he’d have to do is replace ‘Katie Holt, will you marry me?’ with ‘Pidge, will you go out on a date with me?’ and he’d be good to go. It couldn’t be _that_ difficult.

 

Right?


	5. Testing a Hypothesis, Part A

_Chapter V: Testing a Hypothesis_

 

Pidge slept dreamlessly that night, but the temporary bliss came to an abrupt end at the jarring blare of Keith’s alarm clock. It figured that the wall separating their rooms in the apartment had about as much noise proofing as a piece of stuccoed cardboard (which Pidge suspected the entire building was _actually_ made of), and that the desk he placed the infernal object on shared said wall with her bed.

 

Even though she didn’t have to report to work for another two and a half hours, Pidge slinked out of bed and trudged to the kitchen with her laptop in hand, plugging it into the wall before she joined Keith in the kitchen.

 

“Damn it all, we’re out of Poptarts again,” she grumbled, resigning herself to having a few handfuls of Gorilla Munch for breakfast for the third day in a row. Keith gave her a reproachful look as he finished buttering his English muffins, glancing at the notepad on the counter.

 

“If you want me to pick up anything at SuperFresh, add it to the list,” he said, placing the butter back in the fridge.

 

“Sweet, thanks. Is Hunk picking you up?” Pidge asked, pouring herself a glass of iced tea. Keith had attempted to take groceries home on his motorcycle once and that…hadn’t ended well.

 

“Yeah, at 3.”

 

_Ugh_ , she had work until 5, otherwise she’d ask to go: grocery shopping with the two of them was surprisingly fun. Plus, it would have been a perfect scheming opportunity: Hunk probably had some good advice about how to help Keith with his whole Lance situation, and she knew her roommate would never bring it up himself if he could help it.

 

“I’ll text you a list,” she promised, sending herself a quick email as a reminder.

 

Pidge, of course, never checked her email, which is how she found herself in her windowless office several hours later, waiting for the computer to convert a particularly large file, chatting with Hunk and Keith over FaceTime as they traipsed down the aisles.

 

“Do you want real or generic Poptarts?” Hunk asked, angling the camera at the display. “Generics are thirteen cents less per pastry.”

 

“Generics skimp out on the frosting,” she grumbled, “but I’m poor, so generic it is.”

 

Hunk laughed, placing the box in the cart. Keith rolled his eyes at the addition, pushing the cart past the cookies and baking supplies so that Pidge felt less inclined to add more junk food to their pantry.

 

“Hey, Pidge, how about some vegetables?” he teased, grabbing a bag of carrots from his side of the cart and showing them to the camera.

 

“I’ll just steal some of yours,” she replied matter-of-factly, pulling at a hangnail. Keith rolled his eyes, giving Hunk a pointed look.

 

“You’re fake-engaged to a parasite,” he deadpanned, gesturing to Pidge’s cache of goods: it was all pasta, canned beans, and TV dinners, freshly topped with the recent addition of generic toaster pastries. “I feel like you two actually getting married might extend Pidge’s life by a few decades.”

 

“To be fair, I think anyone who got to eat Hunk’s cooking every day would experience a similar longevity benefit,” Pidge argued, and Hunk couldn’t help but blush. “Lance cheated us all in our housing arrangements.”

 

Keith feigned offense. “That wasn’t what you were saying when I made you chicken fried rice last weekend.”

 

“Hunk’s is better.”

 

“Rude!”

 

As the two continued to bicker Hunk attempted to distract himself with a dazzling array of fine cheeses, trying and failing to lose himself between the fancy parmesans and artisanal cheddars. Somehow something as seemingly innocuous as complementing his cooking had left him feeling somewhat giddy, and a part of him ran with that thought unbidden. There were very few circumstances where Hunk would be willing to cook every day, but the prospect of making Pidge happy was quickly becoming one of them.

 

“Hunk, can you grab some Kraft singles while you’re over there? Pidge needs them for grilled cheese.”

 

Addendum: he’d cook for Pidge to make her happy, yes, but perhaps to also help her last at least into her thirties.

 

He grabbed the strangely yellow not-cheese nonetheless, checking the expiration date (they’d probably— _hopefully_ —be on to the next US president by the time this stuff went bad) before plunking it into the basket. Hunk couldn’t change her habits—and the notion of forcing Pidge to do something she didn’t want to do left a bad taste in his mouth—but perhaps…

 

“I’m making green curry this weekend,” Hunk decided out loud, mentally going through his and Lance’s pantry to make sure he had all of the required spices. “You can both come for dinner if you help me chop. I can also teach you how to make it if you’re tired of having grilled cheese three nights a week.”

 

Keith looked more than a little relieved at the suggestion, and Pidge’s pixelated face lit up on the screen.

 

“Oh, we are _so_ in,” she decided, pumping a fist. “I feel like I can actually get through the rest of the week now.”

 

“And hopefully through the weekend without having to scrape a layer of burned macaroni and cheese off of our saucepan,” Keith muttered, turning Pidge’s bright smile into a prominent flush.

 

“Well at least I didn’t leave the fridge open for half an hour because I got distracted by some flirty twink on Grindr,” she retorted, folding her arms.

 

Keith scoffed, embarrassed and indignant, even as his tone remained mirthful. “It’s _your_ janky-ass fridge that wouldn’t stay closed, but go off I guess.”

 

The both of them continued to bicker as Hunk wandered around the next aisle on the lookout for canned bamboo shoots and coconut milk, the sound of Pidge’s voice coming out of the phone now garbled and distant. Nevertheless, if he listened closely, he could hear bits and pieces of Keith’s side of the conversation, and try as he might to give the roommates privacy Hunk couldn’t help but eavesdrop when his own roommate’s name was inevitably mentioned.

 

“… _no_ , Pidge, I’m not going to ask him about Lance: it’s bad enough that you know about this already…

 

…No. We’ll talk about this later. Now unless you need anything else from SuperFresh…

 

… I’m _not_ getting that god-awful chocolate milk vodka. Bye, Pidge.”

 

Keith sighed audibly as he hung up, kicking the grocery cart into motion around the corner to the canned foods section. When Hunk saw him come over he looked like he’d swallowed something particularly large and sour.

 

“What’s up?” Hunk asked innocently, placing the curry items into the basket.

 

Another heavy sigh. “How much did you hear?”

 

Hunk knew that attempting to lie was inevitable: Keith could practically smell fear.

 

“…Pidge knowing something about Lance that she shouldn’t? Chocolate vodka?”

 

Keith growled in exasperation, scratching his scalp.

 

“No, but— _augh_ , screw it, you’re probably going to find out anyway. It’s a bit of a long story, and it’s not very fun or happy.”

 

Hunk shrugged. “We have time, and I’m willing to listen if you’re willing to talk.”

 

Keith bit his lip in contemplation for but a moment before he relented. “Fine, but you don’t breathe a word of this to Lance, okay? Bro Code invoked, or whatever.”

 

Giving a small and not entirely insincere salute, Hunk nodded. “Bro Code honored.”


	6. Testing a Hypothesis, Part B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mention of homophobia.

_ Testing a Hypothesis, Part B _

Well, Keith hadn’t been lying: this _was_ a long story.

And, well, in terms of revelations, today’s findings were of particular interest given the tea that Lance had spilled last night: it turns out that Lance’s crush on Keith was mutual, but he couldn’t tell either of the involved parties at all because he’d been slapped with the Bro Code and sworn to secrecy. 

He and Keith were on the way back to the latter’s apartment, their path home somewhat obscured on account of evening traffic. Hunk had opened up a bag of popcorn and stuffed it into the generously sized center console as he listened to his friend rattle off his woes, stuffing his own mouth in order to both satisfy his hunger and reduce the likelihood of blabbing about how Lance felt about Keith. 

Hunk had known Lance since middle school: he’d seen his best friend through girlfriends, a bisexual crisis, and then a smattering of boyfriends and girlfriends. They’d all been steps in Lance’s love life for different reasons (some more wholesome than others), each an entirely different measure on the sliding scales of health, satisfaction, and commitment, but very few had lasted more than a few months. As charming as he was, people seemed to easily tire of Lance’s, well, Lance-ness: he was boisterous, flamboyant, and passionate, though seldom comfortable enough to let his walls down and acknowledge what was really bothering him. It seemed like every guy and girl wanted to stick around during the good times, but would quickly duck out whenever Lance retreated into his own head, determined to shoulder his own burdens rather than ask for help. 

So, as determined as he was to keep his mouth shut and let Keith talk, Hunk allowed himself to ask one thing. 

“What about Lance attracts you to him?” Hunk asked carefully, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “I mean, besides physical stuff: we all know he’s a stud.”

Keith blushed, hiding behind the collars of his hoodie. 

“I wondered that myself for awhile,” he mumbled, still bashful. “At first I thought I was only attracted to him physically, and that my taste in men had finally just hit rock bottom.” He gave self-deprecating laugh. “In astro all we did was bicker and compete, but even so at that point it was the most attention anyone outside my family had ever given to me. When I finally realized that at the end of the semester and told him I wanted to be friends and not fight anymore he just…accepted it. He was humble enough to admit that he’d been a little mean and aggressive and wanted to start over.”

Hunk knew the rest of the story after this: Jeff, Lance’s roommate at the time and a co-member of the swim team, had heard about Keith and Lance’s rivalry-turned-friendship and told him how Keith had ‘seduced’ the lacrosse team captain and was now probably trying to get into Lance’s pants, too. They’d all been at a team party hosted in one of the frat houses, and Jeff had used a couple of words that had reaffirmed Lance’s decision to remain closeted to the team. When no one else had had the guts to tell Jeff to stop being such a homophobic prick Lance had quit the team the next day, moving out of student athlete housing just before the end of the semester. He’d slept on a futon in Hunk and Matt’s double for two weeks, only venturing back into his dorm room to collect all of his belongings when he knew the swim team was out of town for a meet. Lance had later confessed to Hunk that the incident had given him the courage and resolve to finally come out to his parents that summer, and he’d been closer to them ever since. 

“After that whole thing with the swim team, I knew that Lance wasn’t just going to add me to an endless laundry list of acquaintances or pretend to care about me,” Keith said, allowing himself a small smile. “And he followed through: everything with Shiro and his accident, and my grades and homework when I spent all those nights in the hospital…he always put me first, even though I was anxious and mean and probably not the most fun person to be around, always trying to make me smile with his stupid pickup lines and little dances. I pretended to hate it, but when Shiro was comatose Lance kept me grounded.”

Keith smiled wistfully, biting his lip. “Learning to trust in him ultimately gave me the courage to open up to you and Pidge, and even though you both drive me nuts with your teasing and techno-babble I couldn’t ask for better friends.”

Hunk cooed, pulling Keith into a side hug from the driver’s seat. It had been years since they’d met, but Keith had come so far in terms of opening up to others and getting out of his own head.

“Aww, Keith, we love you too,” he joked, laughing as Keith let out a slightly exasperated sigh. It…wouldn’t be _too_ innocuous to say that—

“And, to be honest, you and Lance would make an _adorable_ couple.”

Keith stiffened, and Hunk immediately regretted opening his big, fat mouth. 

“You—you think so?” he asked, his voice squeaking slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Seeing Keith like this was _seriously_ throwing Hunk for a loop. 

“Uh, _yeah_ : you’ve got a cute little height difference and everything,” he teased, making Keith pout and scoff. “But real talk: there is little in this world that makes me more uncomfortable than seeing two people that look like they could be siblings making out in some dingy corner of a club. There’s not much risk of that with you two, you get me?”

And, _well_ , imagining himself and Lance in a rather compromising position in some club wasn’t helping to quell the heat in his cheeks. 

“Are you talking about me and Lance as a matter of _aesthetics_?” Keith asked incredulously, unable to mask the mirth in his tone. 

Hunk shrugged: “You two as a couple is very hypothetical in my brain right now, and I’m driving so my cognition at the moment is somewhat limited. Right now I’m thinking, like, the color wheel, or triangles. Or both. You’re complementary: not the same, but together you make sense. Lance is definitely isosceles, and tall: maybe a 70-70-40 and a bluish-purple? You’re scalene: 50-30-100 and a reddish orange.”

Hunk looked rather proud of his metaphor, but it took him a few seconds to realize that Keith hadn’t really understood anything he’d said. 

Pidge would have laughed, at least.

“You know, complementary? Opposites on the color wheel? Two angles that add up to 90 degrees?” Didn’t he learn this stuff in elementary school? 

“I didn’t take engineering courses.”

Hunk rubbed the side of his face, taking the freeway exit. He was so preoccupied with Keith’s lack of knowledge of basic geometry and color theory that he ended up in the left turn lane instead of the right, groaning under his breath as his conscience compelled him to not cross the solid yellow line and save five minutes on the drive home.

“Hunk? You—“

“I know, sorry: there’s a legal u-turn ahead.”

“You could have just crossed—“

“Keith, I’m a large brown man with tattoos, and the cops like to hang out here.”

“…Point taken.”

Wisely, Keith remained silent as Hunk continued down the Main Street, eyes focused on the road. For a minute or so he remained rather stoic, until a brand new sign where the Coco’s had been up until about six months ago caught his attention. 

“’Altea Bakery and Deli’?” he read, almost instinctively activating his turn signal to pull into the lot. “Isn’t this the place that Shiro likes to go for coffee?”

Keith looked up, squinting. “Yeah, but he’s more interested in the girl behind the counter than he is in what she’s selling, if you know what I mean.”

Hunk chuckled. “Have you been?”

“Yeah, their French bread is fantastic,” he said, licking his lips involuntarily. “Made fresh every hour.”

“Do they have garlic bread?”

“…I think so?”

Hunk smirked, wriggling his eyebrows. “You should get some for Lance: it’s his favorite.”

Keith’s cheeks puffed out, ruddy and hot. 

“Fine, but you’re coming in with me,” he muttered, unbuckling his seat belt as Hunk shifted the gear into park. 

A bell tinkled lightly when they walked inside, hardly preparing the both of them for the onslaught of delicious smells that wafted around them as they surveyed the menu options. Hunk almost fell flat on his back at how fresh and delicious everything in the display cases looked: whoever was in charge here knew _exactly_ what they were doing. 

“Good evening,” came a muffled voice from the back, followed by what sounded like a grunt of effort. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Take your time,” Keith relayed, scanning the menu to see if his memory served him right regarding the garlic bread. 

_ Bang! _

“Ow, quiznak—“

“Are you okay back there?” Hunk asked tentatively, craning his head in an attempt to look past the semi-translucent curtain separating the register from the back room. 

“I, um…I might require a bit of assistance,” the voice said sheepishly, followed by another noise of struggle. 

Hunk was around the corner and past the curtain in no time, Keith not far behind him. By the time he gathered his bearings Keith could tell that Hunk was helping someone maneuver a box about the size of the mini-fridge he’d had in college, and judging by how much even Hunk was struggling with it seemed to be twice as heavy.

“I just need it over there in the corner, by the dough kneader,” said the voice behind the box, and with their combined effort they both managed to achieve the task, sighing with effort when the box finally settled on the floor with a large _thunk._

__

When Hunk finally stretched out his back and got a good look at the woman he’d been helping, he couldn’t help the blush that rose to his cheeks. 

She was almost as tall as he was, all rounded curves and beautiful brown skin, sporting an array of chunky jewelry that seemed to have been made to frame the strong features of her face. Sculpted, muscular arms covered in a thin layer of flour folded sheepishly behind her back as she regarded Hunk bashfully, seemingly as taken with his physique as he was with hers. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled shyly, chuckling to herself. “I had thought to ask Allura earlier to help me with getting the flour down before she went home, but it completely slipped my mind until it came time to make the conchas.”

“Oh, but where are my manners?” she fretted, extending a hand. “I’m Shay Ballamera. Welcome to Altea Bakery and Deli!”

Hunk shook it. “Tsuyoshi Garrett, but my friends just call me Hunk.”

Shay gave him a look that said ‘ _I’ll say_ ,’ and Keith had to stifle a laugh. 

“This is—“

“Oh, welcome back, Keith!” she exclaimed, flashing him a smile, which was shyly returned. “No Takashi today?”

“Nah, he has a late shift at the precinct,” he said, waving a hand. “He’ll be back in the morning, though, as per usual.”

Shay laughed, shaking her head. “Allura will be waiting for him with a double-shot espresso with soymilk creamer at 7:55AM. Speaking of which, would you like your usual?”

Keith stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Actually, um…I was wondering if you could make something off menu? No pressure if it’s too inconvenient.”

Shay gave him a knowing look, placing her hand on her hips. “Something special for someone special?”

“He’s trying to impress a boy with garlic bread,” Hunk chuckled, earning a glare. 

“Hunk, Bro Code!” 

“You told me I couldn’t talk to Lance about it, but didn’t say anything about anyone else,” Hunk retorted, smiling smugly. 

“ _Ugh_ —fine, yeah, I was, um, I was wondering if you could—“

She waited for Keith to trail off a little bit longer, cocking her head to the side as he put his thoughts into words.

Finally she seemed to take pity on him, laughing lightly. 

“We don’t have it on the menu, but I’ll make a special exception for you,” she said, though she looked more at Hunk rather than Keith as she said this. “It’ll take a minute, so just sit tight.”

Which is how they found themselves back in Hunk’s pickup 20 minutes later, a fresh order of perhaps the world’s most pungent garlic bread and an additional baguette between them as they made their way back to the apartments. Hunk had rolled down the window to keep the smell from soaking into the cheap cloth seats, and Keith had pulled his hair up into a loose ponytail to keep the long, loose strands from whipping his face as they cruised down Main. 

“So, Hunk,” Keith began, his mouth curling into a smile as his friend tensed, recognizing the teasing tone. “You and Shay looked pretty _complementary_.”

Hunk gulped, giving a nervous laugh. “We’re a bit more, uh, supplementary…”

Pidge would have laughed her ass off. 

“Does that mean you think she’s cute?” Keith prodded, smirking. 

“She’s cute,” Hunk admitted easily, nodding in agreement, “but, uh…”

He trailed off, staring wistfully out the window. 

“There’s someone else?”

“…yeah.”

“Oh.”

Hunk pulled into Keith’s apartment complex, humming contentedly to himself as he parked in the ten minute spot and helped his friend carry their mountain of groceries to the second-floor apartment.

“Tell me about this ‘someone else’ later?” Keith finally asked, loading the fridge with lactose-free milk. Hunk paused midway through unloading an armful of canned foods into their pantry, taking a moment to contemplate his request. 

“Maybe.”

\- - - - - - -

When Pidge got home about half an hour later, she opened her bedroom door to find a baguette tucked into the covers. 

“What the—Keith?” 

“Yeah?” came his muffled voice from the adjacent room, the music on his headphones loud enough for her to register that her roommate was listening to Queen.

“Did you put a baguette in my bed?”

“Did I put a bucket on your head?”

She groaned. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah.”

Pidge opened the door, waving the loaf around like a billy club. 

“Baguette. In my bed. Did you put it there?”

Keith saw the wrapper, chuckling as the revelation came to him. “Hunk must have put it there: he picked it up at this new bakery on our way home.”

Oh, _god_ : had she left her underwear lying around on the floor? Had he gone through her diary? Was her vibrator still plugged into the wall charging or had she remembered to put it away?

“Why are you making that face?”

Pidge tore off a chunk of the baguette and stuffed it into her mouth, hardly registering how amazing it tasted. 

“It’s a mess in there,” she said simply, a few crumbs falling onto Keith’s carpet as she talked with her mouth full. 

“And that’s different from how it’s always been in _what_ way exactly?” he snarked, laughing as Pidge puffed out her cheeks in embarrassment. 

“Well, whatever: Hunk went all Postmates on me and brought me dinner. What did _your_ fake fiancée do for you today?”

Keith rolled his eyes as Pidge tore off another section of the baguette. “That baguette is not your dinner.”

She stuffed the piece into her mouth in defiance, getting even more crumbs on the floor as she turned her heel to leave.

“Watch me, Kogane,” she laughed, closing the door behind her before she retreated to her own bed, sighing contentedly as she continued to munch on the soft, still warm bread. Suddenly it made sense as to why he’d put it in her bed: she’d easily see it, and her blankets acted as a perfect insulator. 

She could fully taste it now that she realized that there has not been anything particularly incriminating strewn about her room in plain sight, and something about Hunk having been the one to get the baguette for her made it all the more tasty. Pidge wolfed down the rest of it with gusto as she scrolled through social media, though as she fished the bottom of the bag for crumbs her fingers brushed on what felt like a business card. 

Was—was this a note? From Hunk? 

She could barely control herself as she fished the paper out, attempting to cradle it as gingerly as possible, a glimmer of— _something_ fluttering in her chest as she flipped the blank side over, hoping beyond hope that he’d given her something to indicate his feelings—

“Shay Ballamera, winky face, (555)-XXX-XXXX,” she read aloud, squinting at the neat, blocky print.

Against her better judgment Pidge snapped a photo of the back of the card and sent it to Hunk, followed by more than a few question marks. Who the hell was Shay? Was Hunk trying to set she and Pidge up on a date or something? I mean, if she was cute and nice she wouldn’t be against it, but she had her sights set on someone else—

_ Ping! _

>From: Gold Heart Emoji

> //// O________O ////

> oops I think that was meant for me lol

> sorry for the confusion! 

It felt like a trapdoor had opened in Pidge’s ass and her entire stomach had fallen out, and suddenly she was really glad that Hunk wasn’t here in person to witness her disappointment. 

>To: Gold Heart Emoji

> hahaha ok

Her fingers stalled on the keyboard after she pressed ‘send:’ should she ask? Did she want to know the answer now, or was she going to stave off the inevitable compartmentalization of these strange, nascent feelings for him, even as they begged to grow?

>To: Gold Heart Emoji

> are u gonna ask her out? ;)

The ellipses that indicated a reply in progress came much quicker than she’d anticipated.

>From: Gold Heart Emoji

> idk

> she’s cool but there’s someone else i’ve liked for awhile

> i don’t want to give up on them just yet

The trapdoor sucked her stomach back in and tentatively clicked shut, and for a moment Pidge could hardly breathe. Why had he used vague pronouns? Was the person he liked non-binary? Did he think that indicating the person’s gender would give them away? Hunk was pansexual, so it really could theoretically be _anybody_. 

So—so did she maybe have a chance—?

In _any_ case, she knew that Hunk would remain tight-lipped about this: if he’d wanted to give details, he’d have given them already. For now she’d play along and stay cool. She’d be one of the bros and play this platonic. 

>To: Gold Heart Emoji

> ( ͡°( ͡° ͜ʖ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ʖ ͡°) ͡°)

> this is new!

> tell me about them later maybe???

_ God _ , had she really just used a Lenny face?

>From: Gold Heart Emoji

> [speak no evil monkey emoji] [zipped lips emoji]

As expected. 

>To: Gold Heart Emoji

> ugh fine go to bed lover boy

> i’ll bother u more about it when keith and i come over for curry this weekend 

Pidge switched her phone to silent and threw her head back on the bed, letting out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding as her back popped against the mattress. She lay awake for perhaps an hour, staring at her ceiling as a new mantra beat in time with her heart, a subliminal, optimistic tattoo etching into her consciousness. 

I have a chance.

I have a chance.

I have a chance. 


	7. Testing a Hypothesis, Part C

_ Testing a Hypothesis, Part C _

Keith could tell that there was something going on between Hunk and Pidge. 

They were all in the former’s kitchen preparing the green curry Hunk had promised them earlier this week, but their usual banter seemed…subdued. It wasn’t just the verbal banter, either: Pidge would usually make herself as large as possible in the kitchen, stepping on toes and hip-checking anyone who came within a foot of her, but today her elbows hardly stuck out more than necessary, and she’d very possibly flinched when Hunk had accidentally bumped into her at the sink while the both of them were attempting to wash their hands (he’d half expected her to flick soapy water onto his apron in retaliation, if he was being honest). 

And apparently Hunk had, too, because he’d reacted almost immediately, nearly dropping a colander full of freshly washed green beans into the sink. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay,” Pidge interrupted, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m not offended or anything, I just—“

She sighed heavily, rubbing the back of her neck. “I didn’t sleep too well last night: guess I’m a little bit flinchy.”

_ Lie _ , Keith thought: he’d asked to borrow a charging cord from her at 10:00PM and she’d been fast asleep. At least he’d assumed she was asleep: the lights were off and she was in bed. 

Hunk’s shoulders slackened in relief, though, and he let out a breath. “Oh, I’m um, I’m sorry to hear that,” he mumbled, his tone quiet but sympathetic. “I probably could have used a bit more sleep, too.”

“You worrying yourself over that sweetie of yours?” she teased, grabbing a handful of green beans out of the colander to begin removing the stems.

“Yeah, actually,” he found himself replying, shrugging in resignation. “But I have to say that about half of the stress comes from you lot asking me about them.”

Hunk’s voice seemed to rise in accusation as Lance slinked out of his room, practically summoned by the mention of a ‘sweetie.’

“You can’t blame me for being curious!” Lance drawled, placing a neatly manicured hand on his collarbones. “If someone out there is amazing enough to capture my boy’s heart I want to hear about it!”

“Help Pidge with the green beans or else you’re not getting fed tonight,” Hunk ordered politely, placing the colander in front of his roommate. He’d officially ended the discussion, and Pidge couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Now once you’re done cutting those I’ll show you the order that I put the components into the pan. I’m assuming we want a mild curry for you two and a hot one for Lance and me?”

Both members of the Bland Club nodded, ignoring Lance’s muttered comment about _típicos yanquis_ as he grabbed a cutting board and began to chop the green beans. 

“Okay, I’ll get two saucepans. Left burner will be mild, right will be spicy. The first thing we have to do is let the curry paste simmer…”

Keith looked up from the zucchini he was slicing every once in awhile as Hunk gave instructions, explaining each step as he completed it. Making good curry was about timing and patience, all of which he described and executed beautifully: it was like watching something from Food Network in real time, except in a kitchen that was far less fancy and sparsely equipped, the ceiling hardly tall enough to miss Hunk’s head if he happened to jump. Every once in awhile he would glance over to Keith, checking his gaze for understanding or clarification, but by and large he was talking to Pidge, having her add this ingredient to the saucepan or sauteé that vegetable, and though cooking wasn’t something she usually enjoyed she was smiling more now than she had been all week. 

Or, at least she was until she got to one of the final steps.

Until now Pidge had thought that there was only one way to cut a chicken breast: small, die-sized cubes that her mother requested to top salads at home. When it became clear that that was what she intended to do with the chicken for the curry, Hunk made a panicked sound and demonstrated the proper, somewhat diagonal slice. 

“Why does it have to be diagonal?” Pidge asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier if it were just in cubes? It absorbs more of the curry sauce that way.”

“Cutting it this way ensures the advantage of a high surface area to volume ratio without the individual pieces disintegrating into the broth,” Hunk explained easily, and at Pidge’s immediate and unquestioning understanding Lance gawked at Keith, looking between him and their two friends with some degree of incredulity. 

“Are you seeing this?” he mouthed, causing Keith to snort lightly under his breath. 

But despite the reasoning Pidge was still struggling with the diagonal cuts, the knife wobbling on the meat’s surface before coming down in a rough, imprecise arc. Hunk noticed her frustration and chuckled, moving behind her to poke his head over her shoulder. 

“It’s okay, it takes practice,” he reassured, reaching over to grasp her fist that was holding the knife. “Loosen up a bit, and I’ll help you.”

Keith had stopped chopping altogether, foregoing his duties to openly stare at his friends as Pidge relinquished her control of the blade, swallowing audibly as Hunk’s fingers brushed her knuckles. The gesture was almost intimate, so much so that Keith was almost embarrassed for Pidge, and though he wasn’t attracted to Hunk he probably would have been sweating and stammering had he been in her place. Lance seemed to be catching on too, his beady eyes unabashedly staring as Hunk guided the knife down, the sawing motion of the blade barely perceptible as a perfectly sliced piece came off. 

Pidge was blushing like a schoolgirl, seeming to understand the underlying sensuality of the gesture—the way his body pressed against her back, how his massive, yet gentle fingers dwarfed her own, how warm and safe she felt nested in his arms—and altogether mortified that Keith and Lance were there to witness how flustered it made her. She could already see the cogs turning in Lance’s head, praying that whatever terrible pun he was concocting about meat handling would remain private. 

Thankfully, the daggers she stared his way seemed to intimidate him into silence effectively enough: there’d be teasing later, after Lance’s fear had inevitably worn off, but for now she had other, more immediate concerns.

Like the fact that Hunk had finally seemed to realize the intimacy of their current position and started to disentangle himself from her, shimmying his body around the kitchen island to give her some (regrettably) much needed personal space. He cleared his throat, mumbling something about lemongrass paste and fish sauce as he opened up the fridge and busied himself with finding said ingredients. 

“When you’re finished with chopping up those carrots and green beans put half of each in each saucepan,” he said, almost as an after-thought, as he glanced at Keith and Lance on his way to the counter to mince the garlic. “And mind the splashing: the coconut milk is very hot.”

“It ain’t the only thang,” Lance whispered under his breath as he mockingly fanned himself, just loud enough so that only Keith could hear and roll his eyes in response. Pidge glared at the both of them from across the kitchen before ducking her head down to finish slicing the chicken the way Hunk had instructed, despite her wrists shaking more now than they had been before. 

\- - - - - - -

As expected, dinner had been spectacular: the aroma, the flavors, and the textures had all blended beautifully and settled warm in their bellies, keeping them full and happy when they settled down for a movie. Lance had torrented _Nacho Libre_ on his laptop and connected the HDMI cable to the large flatscreen in the living room, and the before long the four of them had settled on the threadbare futon couch: Hunk had the right armrest and Keith the left, and Lance and Pidge sandwiched snugly between them. The proximity was rarely a problem—if anyone got too warm or overwhelmed they just sat on the floor or pulled in a chair form the kitchen—but with Hunk’s hands-on chicken cutting tutorial fresh on her mind Pidge was still just a _little_ too aware of how warm and solid Hunk’s arm was against her shoulder. The damn thing was like a tree trunk, and rippled in the most tantalizing way with the rest of his body whenever he laughed.

_ God _ , she loved Hunk’s laugh. She loved his tree-trunk arms, and his warm, massive hands, and the way his belly had pressed her into the kitchen counter—

A deep ache settled in her ribcage, dull and throbbing as she squeezed her eyes shut. It was difficult enough that Hunk was thoughtful, and intelligent, and sassy, and _got_ her in ways no one else could, but the fact that he also happened to be _very_ easy on the eyes and had absolutely no qualms about being physically close to his friends was just making this even more difficult than it had any right to be. 

_ This is nonsense _ , she thought bitterly, crossing her arms in her lap as the character on screen screeched something about the Lord’s chips. _Not even a week ago he fake proposed to me in a crowded restaurant and I was fine._

What had even changed, from then until now? Was she only feeling this way because some part of her was so touch-starved and yearning for romantic companionship that she was latching onto the first person that seemed to be a good fit? She’d done that in college with her first long-term boyfriend, after all: it wasn’t as if she hadn’t loved Aaron, but a part of her was still convinced that she’d dated him because she’d felt the need to fill some void in her life, and that he had been the first person to both meet her standards and demonstrate an interest in her. Pidge had had so much doubt and anxiety about the whole thing that she’d broken up with him and immediately started dating other people to fill the ensuing void: Cassandra, Leon, Marcia, and Anthony had all fizzled out within weeks or months, and with each ensuing breakup Pidge had become more and more convinced that she’d never fall in love again. If she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t entirely sure if she’d ever been in love with Aaron, either: it wasn’t like there was a litmus test for such a complicated arrangement of hormones and circumstances. Love was inexact, and messy, and fickle, and now had the added element of (possibly?) interfering with one of the best platonic relationships she’d ever had. 

“Pidge?” 

She jolted back to herself, stirred by Keith’s clipped summons: the credits were rolling, and beside her Lance’s eyebrows raised in the way they always did when he was anticipating an answer. 

“Sorry, what?” she replied, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Had she really been spacing out that long? 

“If I grab some leftover curry will you eat it in the next three days?” Keith repeated, somewhat exasperated. “I don’t want it to just sit in the fridge.”

Oh. “Uh, yeah,” she amended, sinking further into the warmth of the couch cushions. “I’d have Hunk’s curry over toaster pastries for lunch any day of the week.” 

Beside her Hunk made a happy noise, his body thrumming with contentment. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at him right now, fearful that the nausea would return.

“Are you gonna be taking Hunk back with you, too?” Lance teased, smirking knowingly. 

_ What? _

Pidge spared a glance to her right, and suddenly realized why the couch cushions had seemed warmer than normal: she had been clinging to Hunk’s arm like a possessive koala, her cheek pressed into the meat of his massive bicep enough to distort the symmetry of her glasses and leave a faint indent in his warm, brown skin.

Well, as long as she was here, and could blame at least some of what she said on her grogginess…

“I might,” she found herself saying, giving Hunk’s arm a final squeeze before she reluctantly disentangled herself from his side, taking off her glasses to rub at her eyes. “I feel like you’re the human version of those plug-in thermal rocks that people put in reptile cages. But, like, softer.”

Keith snorted. “I always knew you were a lizard person,” he offered, earning a small laugh from Hunk and Lance. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

\- - - - - - -

After seeing Pidge off to bed (despite her grumblings about how there were still bread crumbs in her sheets), Keith sank into the rolling chair by his desk, exhaling slowly. Realizing that two of his friends might be in love with each other was seriously throwing him for a loop: Hunk and Pidge had been fast friends since undergrad, and always quick to laugh and dismiss any suppositions that they were involved romantically. Even Keith himself had suspected that they were dating until Pidge had introduced him to Aaron, who in his opinion had hardly seemed an ideal match for his friend. Keith hadn’t been surprised when they’d broken up halfway through junior year, and now that he thought about it Keith wasn’t sure this recent development surprised him too much, either. 

Lance must have already known, given the smug looks he was sending Hunk’s way during and after dinner, and how he’d cooed softly and quickly snapped a photo when Pidge had snuggled into Hunk’s side on the couch halfway through the movie and sent it to Keith over Snapchat. He was sure that Hunk was getting grilled by him at this very moment, so by that logic it wouldn’t hurt to drop one more line of inquiry in before the night was out: Hunk h _ad_ said he might be willing to talk about his just a few days ago, after all.

>To: Hunkules

> [IMG_1029.jpg]

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Within seconds, Hunk was typing a response.

            >To: Knife Gay

> don’t ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) me!

> but,,,cute

_ Aha _ , caught red handed!

>To: Hunkules

> it’s katie isnt it

> the person you’ve been thinking abt?

It took a few minutes for the ellipse to appear on his screen again, and when it did it flickered in and out of existence, betraying Hunk’s hesitation.

>To: Knife Gay

> please don’t tell her

Keith could almost see his pleading gaze and knitted brows; almost hear the way his tone would waver and crack. As much as Hunk seemed like an open book to the rest of the world he was deeply prudent and private, having learned the hard way that people of his stature and color were perceived differently than most of his friends: Keith knew first-hand what it was like to operate under the shadows of stereotypes, and usually shoved down his deepest insecurities even while in the presence of his closest friends. He envisioned that Hunk had his own insecurities about all of this, given how delicate the situation tended to become when romantic feelings were involved. 

>To: Hunkules

> it’s okay, my lips are sealed

> let me know if you need to talk about it: no sense penting that shit up

>To: Knife Gay

> lol okay thank u, i appreciate it

> and same, if u need to talk about Lance ;) ;) ;)

Keith groaned, back slapping the mattress as he reclined, rubbing his palms into his eye sockets. Given how insufferable Pidge was about his crush on Lance, he might just have to take Hunk up on his offer. 


	8. Testing a Hypothesis, Part D

_ Testing a Hypothesis, Part D _

** OLIVE GARDEN **

BUY 1 ENTRÉE AND GET ONE FREE

Up to 2 coupons per transaction, per day. Limit $14.99 value. 

Not combinable with other offers. Expires 12/31/XX.

Pidge waved the coupons in front of her webcam, arching an unruly eyebrow as she stared at the pixelated image of her father on the screen.

“Yes, those are a part of your care package!” Sam announced, his voice so delighted that he may as well have been telling her that he’d won the lottery. “Your mother and I don’t eat gluten anymore, so we figured that you and your friends might want to treat yourselves!”

“Uh, thanks,” she said, chuckling to herself when she remembered how vehemently Hunk had complained about the breadsticks. “I guess I’ll take the boys.”

“There’s a roll of quarters for laundry, too. And some popcorn!”

Pidge glanced down at the recently opened package at her feet: she’d already extracted a package of 94% fat free popcorn and popped it into the microwave, silently thanking Keith for thinking to buy butter at the grocery store last week. She’d have to melt a tablespoon or two of that into the bag if she had any hope of getting the popcorn to taste better than salty cardboard. 

She adored her parents, truly, and greatly appreciated that they thought to send her packages every couple of weeks with some essentials, even though she only lived about a 45-minute drive away from her childhood home. But she was pushing 25 now, and sometimes their gestures bordered on officious: she hadn’t used a coin-operated washing machine since her senior year of college more than 2 years ago (the one in her apartment complex took credit cards), and despite repeated reminders the quarters still came. It was almost endearing— _almost_ being the operative word—but at least she had a convenient form of currency to help Hunk with parking meters whenever they went into the city proper. 

Her slight disgruntlement was somewhat alleviated when the familiar _clack-clack-clack_ of claws on hardwood floor registered on her headphones.

“Beibei! Gunther!” she cooed, smiling as the camera swiveled to a pair of enthusiastic bull terriers. “Are you being a good boy and a good gorl?” 

“Gunther dug up your father’s begonias the other day,” said Sam reproachfully, and Pidge laughed as the dog sat on his haunches and tilted his head up, seeming almost proud of what he’d done. What a naughty boy. 

“Your mother wants to talk to you,” Sam said, the camera shaking as he speed-walked to Colleen’s office, the tips of his toes poking in and out of the frame as Gunther and Beibei followed not far behind. “Have a good day, Katie: we love you!”

“Love you too, dad,” Pidge laughed, “and thanks for the coupons.”

\- - - - - - -

She hated those damn coupons. 

The four of them had managed to make it to the Olive Garden at the local mall, enticed with the prospect of a ‘cheap dinner’ and perhaps a visit to the arcade later to watch Pidge be _uncannily_ good at winning prizes from claw machines, and promptly been seated between the swinging doors to the kitchen and an exhausted looking couple with a pair of twins that were fighting over an unmuted iPad. She saw Keith pull a flask out of the inner pocket on his jacket and take a particularly long swig, drawing an incredulous look from Lance when he wiped his mouth off on the back of his fingerless gloves. 

A high school-aged student that looked like they had slept in their uniform set a bowl of breadsticks and three copies of the liquor list on the table, barely looking up at them as he distributed the menus. 

“Welcome to the Olive Garden,” he deadpanned, looking like he was suppressing a yawn. “Will you be needing any kid’s menus this evening?”

Pidge took in a deep breath, fishing for the wallet in her hoodie pocket. “Gerald,” she said evenly, reading off of the guy’s nametag, “A bottle of the Zinfandel for the four of us, please: hopefully that’s ‘manly enough’ for you?” 

She found her driver’s license and pushed it forward on the table as if it were a pile of poker chips, eyebrows raised as he scrutinized the date of birth. 

“You might need your manager to get that, actually,” she said offhandedly, “I don’t think that you’re technically allowed in the cellar unless you’re over 21.”

Gerald flushed, placing the card back down on the table. “Yes, um, of course. Right away, sir.”

He finally bothered to make eye contact with her, if for only a second, before realizing his mistake.

“Ma’am.” 

Lance whistled lowly as the waiter scurried away, nabbing a breadstick from the basket. 

“Damn, Pidge,” he remarked, his eyes following the waiter as he disappeared into the back room. “What was that? I think you made him cry.”

“Serves him right,” she muttered, nibbling on her own breadstick as she pointed her pinkie at the waitress that was serving the table with the twins. “He was extremely rude to Matt the last time we were here.”

“What did he do?” Hunk asked tentatively, propping his head on his hand. 

“Tried to get him to order a nasty-ass lager instead when he asked for a strawberry daiquiri,” she sighed, massaging her temples. “Apparently it offended his delicate sensitivities to serve a fruity drink to a man.”

Lance squinted. “A daiquiri has, like, three times the alcohol,” he said, “not to mention it tastes like a hundred times better.”

Pidge nodded her assent, taking another bite out of her breadstick. “I’m surprised he’s still here, actually: I complained to the manager and we got our lunch for free.”

“Iconic,” Keith assented, taking a sip from his water, though he was almost drowned out by the screeching of the twins next to him as they bickered over who got to play the next level of Candy Crush. Predictably, the parents were nose-deep in their smartphones and pretending to ignore each other as well as the veritable Thunder Dome at their table, and the other restaurant patrons were starting to stare. 

Pidge heaved out a sigh, slapping her menu down onto the table with a resigned huff.

“Fuck this, we’re going to Burger King.”

\- - - - - - -

Fifteen minutes later the four of them had crammed into a booth at the Burger King on the other side of the mall, laughing raucously as Lance told them about his students at the aquarium. 

“José always draws his sharks with fart bubbles,” he said, stuffing an onion ring into his mouth. “After I told him that sharks burp to regulate their buoyancy he concluded that they must fart too, I guess. He knows that sharks are my favorite and made me one, see?”

Even Pidge cooed when he showed a photo of the drawing around on his phone: a figure that looked vaguely like Lance was in a blue SCUBA suit and, sure enough, a smiling purple shark with green fart and burp bubbles was swimming next to him. 

Hunk laughed as he took a sip of his shake. “Dude, bring that home so we can put it on the fridge!”

“It’s laminated and in my office,” Lance said proudly, puffing out his chest. “Right next to…oh, you guys will like this one, too: so I come over to look at Margot’s drawing of the seashore during our tidepools unit, and she’s sketched this sea lion that looks like it’s taking a dump in a hole on the beach,” he recounted, scrolling through his phone to find the picture. “I was like, ‘Margot, what’s going on in your picture?’ and without skipping a beat she turns around, looks at me in the eye, and says: ‘Señor McClain, he’s laying his eggs.’”

Pidge nearly choked on a french fry when Lance showed her the picture and, sure enough, a lumpy sea lion with disturbingly large cartoon eyes stared right back at her. 

“It looks like it’s begging you to end its existence,” said Keith, seemingly unable to look away. “Also, aren’t sea lions viviparous?” 

“Yeah, I think she got them mixed up with sea turtles,” Lance replied, stuffing a chicken nugget into his mouth. “They’re both her favorites.”

Pidge looked at him across the table, envious of is enthusiasm.

“How do you know so much about your students? Don’t you have, like 20 of them?” She couldn’t envision herself even remotely close to wanting to spend 2 hours every Saturday morning with a gaggle of small children, even with financial incentives: her little cousins, who were all terrors, had been more than enough. 

“We all like to talk,” Lance said simply. “I mean, I’m there to help them with ocean-themed crafts and field trips, but most of the kids know what they’re doing and don’t need help. They just kinda do their own thing and talk while they’re working. I tell them about by life and work at the aquarium, and they tell me what they did that week, about their friends, all that stuff.”

He looked wistfully at the indoor playground adjacent to the Burger King. “I think a lot of these kids, you know: their parents work full-time, and maybe aren’t around that much, and this class is the only time they can really talk about how they feel and know that an adult is listening to them.” 

Pidge could tell that Keith was squirming a bit next to her, and she was willing to bet that he was starting to get a little flustered over how adorable Lance was being: just last night he’d been a _little_ bit tipsy off of cheap Trader Joe’s rosé and positively _gushing_ about how Lance’s face was so expressive when he talked. 

(She’d discretely recorded some of it for posterity, but Keith didn’t need to know that…yet.)

Finishing off his fries (and looking a bit forlorn for it), Hunk placed his hand on Lance’s shoulder, the gentle force of it great enough to yield a soft _oof_. 

“Those kids are lucky to have you,” he said sagely, and Lance broke out in a wide, watery smile. 

“Awww, Hunky Bear, you’re gonna make me cry in McDonald’s!”

“Burger King,” Keith and Pidge corrected simultaneously, though their voices were more mirthful than condescending. Pidge took another sip of her shake, popping a fry in her mouth to mix the flavors. “Also,” she added, mouth half full, “‘ _Hunky Bear?_ ’”

“It’s a pet name,” Lance explained, as if her were discussing the weather. “Consider it a fake-engagement present.”

Pidge groaned: it had been more than a week since the Cheesecake Factory incident. One week since she’d been knocked to the ground with latent feelings and startling revelations, and even now she was still stumbling to her feet and regaining her balance, trying to make sense of a world where Hunk made her heart flutter and leap inside of her ribcage whenever he so much as smiled. 

But, oh, she was overdue for some bravado, wasn’t she? 

“Speaking of, Hunk, where’s my diamond ring?” she joked, making an obnoxious sucking sound on her straw as she finished off her milkshake. 

Hunk’s eyes darted across the restaurant, calculating and precise, before they settled on Keith’s meal tray. 

Before Keith could admonish him for stealing his food Hunk grabbed something off of his plate, practically stumbling out of the booth to drop to a knee in front of Pidge’s side of the table. Gingerly, he took one of her hands in his own and gently spread out her fingers, slipping a greasy, lumpy, and frankly a little bit overcooked onion ring on her finger. 

And then, before he could really process what he was doing, Hunk pressed a kiss to her knuckles, feeling the onion ring crackle under the pressure of his lips. 

_ Do it _ , he told himself, his mind reeling with what he had done. _Everything was practically done for you: it’s the perfect moment, and she’ll love this. Ask her out. Ask her out. Ask—_

__

“Consider this an interest payment,” he heard himself say, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “And a confirmation: will you still fake-marry me?”

_ Fuck. _

Pidge’s face was redder and hotter than a cooked lobster, her lips pressed into a line so thin that it almost disappeared into the rest of her face: of _course_ he’d embarrassed her in front of a restaurant full of people again, drawn all this attention to himself with his bumbling and clumsiness—

But she broke out into a smile, a contagious laugh bubbling out of her throat as she nodded her assent: she’d asked for her proverbial diamond ring, and like the brilliant, whip-smart improviser he was Hunk had delivered, and for that she fell in love with him a little more. 

\- - - - - - -

Pidge ended up eating the onion ring off of her finger (and washing her hands) before they cleaned up their table and hit the arcade. Keith momentarily lagged behind to refill his soda at the fountain, allowing himself a small smile when the greasy, slightly crumpled onion ring sleeve crinkled in his coat pocket. 

\- - - - - - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colleen and Sam are based off of my own parents, who sent me all this random stuff when I was in college (including gift cards and coupons). They drive me a little nuts, but I love them <3
> 
> Also, the stories that Lance talks about at Burger King are rooted in truth: I had a classmate in, like, 1st grade that drew a shark with fart bubbles during our oceanography unit (it's a strangely vivid memory???? ??), and I once met this guy on a beach in Hawaii that insisted that monk seals came to shore to lay their eggs. 
> 
> Also, thank you so much for your positive feedback and kind words! This story got a little bit out of hand, but hopefully I'll manage to keep it short (like, under 25k words): I gotta get back to 'Exceptions' at some point lol


End file.
